


must be something in this english air

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Banter, Implied/Referenced Torture, Love/Hate, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, as much comfort as bertie can provide anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: Wilde doesn't even see whoever it is. He doesn't even realise that he's nearly dead until they all scarper and he's left alone on the floor of a dull warehouse. He does realise it, though, and it brings almost no comfort whatsoever that no one will see him in his current condition.





	must be something in this english air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalgalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/gifts).



> Title from the song _Home_ by AlicebanD

It’s not that _everything_ hurts. Just most of it. “Mr Wilde?” Bertie calls, and Wilde tries to say something like, _‘right here, darling’_ or _‘miss me?’_ except all that comes out is a quiet and miserable wheezing. He’s too sore to even attempt a pose. It’s tragic, really. The warehouse (because they couldn’t even have the decency to beat him to a pulp somewhere with nice interior design) blurs and blackens as he loses yet more blood. But he can hear heavy metallic footsteps clanking toward him. Wilde wheezes some more, praying to any god that’s listening that Bertie actually hears him through the (admittedly sparse) thoughts echoing in his helmet. 

Wilde could be wrong, but it kind of feels like one of his lungs has collapsed. That’s not good. Also not good is the sharp intake of breath he hears. “Oh, dear,” says Bertie, and Wilde manages to crack open an eye. Well, at least he won’t be the only one who gets an embarrassing scar. The whoever-they-were did a number on his knight in falcon armour too, apparently. Wilde can make out what looks like a black eye and a split lip. It’s not a terribly comforting realisation, but he’ll take what he can get. “Okay, I’m going to be honest: this _might_ hurt a _little bit.”_ Wilde doesn’t even have the wherewithal to make a witty rejoinder before pain explodes in his spine. And his head. And his chest, stomach, face— not _everywhere._ Just most of him. And he’d like to say that he fights valiantly to remain conscious, but even Wilde isn’t going to tell a lie that big.

_____

He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. Which is, in all honesty, a pretty familiar situation. Not familiar, though, are the bandages wrapped a bit too tightly around him. “Mmph,” Wilde says intelligently, “whuh- whuh’s thuh—” he tries to sit up, but his ribs rather violently protest that— “whuh’s hap’nin’?” Oh, he can talk again, that’s good. Maybe he doesn’t sound like a coherent human being, but Wilde’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s not going to look himself in the mouth, either. He doesn’t want to know if he’s missing any teeth.

“You nearly fiddlesticking _died,”_ comes the reply, “is what’s happening.” Wilde’s head feels heavy and stuffed up with cotton, but he manages to turn (flop vaguely) to look. And there’s Sir Bertrand, without any of his falcon-covered glory, sitting at Wilde’s bedside. He looks like he’s been there for quite a while. Interesting. That’s rather romantic, isn’t it? That isn’t a development Wilde is sure he likes. Although, it might be nice to have someone in the Rangers (they really ought to work on the name) on his side. And it’s not like Bertie would be awful to date. Or, you know, exchange insults with and then drag to the bedroom. Which is usually how his relationships go, these days.

Wilde goes for a sly smile, but he probably misses the mark by a good deal. “Why, Sir Bertrand,” he says, or something like it but a tad more blurred, “did you stay by my bedside this whole time? That’s awfully considerate of you, for a man who wants me dead.” Wilde _would_ bat his eyes coquettishly, but he’s is relatively sure that he’d just look like he was having a spasm. Or high out of his mind. Which, actually, considering the way his wounds feel fuzzy instead of agonising, he probably is.

Bertie glowers. He does look good angry. Wilde would share that, except he wants to give the man some room to respond, first. “I want to make sure you’re alive and well when I vivisect you like an insect. And when I peel you further open with clamp, like an insect. And when I poke around at your insides—”

“You already did _that,_ Sir Bertrand. I believe you saw my article in the paper about that night?” Bertie grumbles at that. Wilde chuckles and then winces, putting a hand up to his chest. Moving his arm is _also_ not great, however, and Wilde slowly stars easing it back. Except, Bertie takes his hand. Wilde is absolutely certain that he’s about to get his already sore arm dislocated, but Bertie just sits there. Holding his hand. Like that’s not completely out of left field. This is some sort of weird challenge, Wilde’s sure of it, and he’s going to win it. “I think I’d be up to full health faster if you kissed me better,” Wilde politely informs him.

Bertie turns the colour of a very stupid tomato. Wilde quietly celebrates his victory. And then, because Wilde can never have nice things, Bertie kisses the back of his hand. “That’s all you’re getting, you’re welcome, get better so I can murder you.” Bertie stalks out of the room, clearly furious, the exact shade of Wilde’s favourite socks. (Judge him all you want, he can make vibrantly lavender socks _work.)_

Wilde doesn’t actually know how to be both loud and intelligible, so he doesn’t yell after Bertie and instead resigns himself to his new, unfamiliar bed. It’s quite comfortable. He nods off rather quickly, all things considered, and he doesn’t even think about the idiot who probably carried him to safety, almost certainly saved his life, and then kissed his hand like some old-fashioned gentleman.

...he doesn’t think about him too much.


End file.
